From Low Brass to Orchestra, With Love
by Kishite no Mirror
Summary: Our freshman year, the orchestra made the very stupid mistake of crossing low brass. No one, and I mean no one, messes with the low brass section, especially not me and my sister. On top of everything else, an orchestra girl is going after MY drum major!


**BH- Well, this is interesting. For those who know a little my my personal _coughbandcough_ life, you know that I am in the middle of a war with my own orchestra section (yes, I am section of leader of the trombones AND the orchestra, don't ask me how that happened 'cause I'm not quite sure.) The whole situation, as absurd as it is, inspired my best friend/little brother to start this story with me. Part of it is based in real life (like the war itself and me and Sean growing up listening to the Beach Boys) but most of it is made up (fantasies about what we COULD do to the orchestra.)**

**Rhane- _hugs her violin protectively_ You touch this, you die!**

**Nathan- _does the same with his viola_**

**BH: _sweatdrop_ And yes, this story is being written, in journal-type format, from the brother's POV.**

**_From Low Brass to Orchestra, With Love  
Prologue: Off to Band Camp_**

**_"Kiss my Irish ass!"_**

My sister and I have been playing since before we could walk (well, if you count banging on pots and pans to the tune of the Beach Boys CDs we listened to constantly playing an instrument.) When we were seven, I got a student guitar and she got a keyboard. To this day, there is no instrument my sister plays better than the guitar, save for her precious harp, and the piano will always be my first love. Our mom never did forgive us for trading instruments on her.

In middle school, we joined the band. It wasn't even a question, even after we found out that guitars and pianos were not band instruments and we had to learn how to play new ones. They handed me a clarinet and gave her a flute. Our teacher could not seem to figure out why we took it as an insult (I'd had my eye on that nice, shiny baritone saxophone in his office.) For an entire year, we endured what had to be the two girliest instruments on the planet. Finally, we got a new teacher.

I had to take the tenor sax (because the barry was taller than I was at the time,) and my sister, having decided she wanted the least-feminine instrument she could find, chose the trombone (because our poorly funded band did not a have tuba or sousaphone.) At the end of eighth grade, we finally got a sousa and she was given first try on it. Naturally, she fell in love (and fell over, the thing was bigger than she was.)

Freshman year came and all hell broke look. I'd had a growth spurt over the summer and now stood half a head taller than my sister, who before then had remained at least an inch over me as long as either of us could remember. Our band director (as we learned they were called) was thrilled to have a new sousaphone player, though he worried that my 5 foot nothing sister might get hurt carrying such a large instrument. Our first day marching, me with my new barry and her with a full-size sousaphone, we both left wondering why we had chosen the two biggest instruments in the band. A week later, however, when we were named section leaders for our respective sections (trombone and tuba for my sister, because the individual sections were so small), we decided it was worth it. We were the only freshmen in the history of the school to have become section leaders. That's when the trouble started.

During middle school, my sister had taken up another instrument: the harp. And she was good at it. Her instructor had donated a full-sized concert harp to the school that my sister intended to play during concert season. The orchestra section was not fond of the idea. Over the year, tension mounted between my sister and the orchestra girls, finally exploding during the last concert of the year when my sister was granted a solo over the senior violinist. Half an hour before the concert, we found the harp stripped of all of its 42 strings and cotton stuffed into its trunk. Too add insult to injury, both tubas had Gatorade bottle lodged in them. While we managed to repair the damage just in time (my sister and I spent most of the concert fixing the harp) the damage was done.

It should be noted that my sister and I are pureblood Irish and, as anyone who has butted heads with the Irish will tell you, we hold grudges. All summer, my sister has been making plans and her wall is literally papered with hundreds of ideas. She currently holds the post of section leader over the tubas, trombones, and my barry saxes, which I gave her when I was given the position of head of the low brass section. I was given only one instruction by our BD: "This war stays between her and them."

Obviously, the man has no clue what he just asked for. We're sitting on the bus for band camp as I write this, surrounded by the low brass players. My sister is already giving instructions. Do I care that the rest of the brass and several members of the drumline are taking orders from her? Not really. Do I care that she has that creepy murderous look in her eyes that almost always means trouble? No. Do I care that the orchestra section just got on the bus and are glaring liquid death at my sister? A little bit. Do I care that they are all wearing necklaces that look like they were made from my sister's custom purple harp strings that went missing last year? Yes. Do I care that their new section leader just shouted an insult across the bus at my sister? That's normal. Do I care that... wait a minute... is that... is that chello boy giving MY drum major the eye? Okay, now it's personal.

**BH- Promise the next part will be longer and will have a lot more... something to it _sigh_ I'm tired, I'm going to bed.**

**Please R&R**


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